


He Has Flown Too Close to the Sun

by SociallyIneptDork



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Porn, Beware we're going to be in for a bit of a ride, Extremely Dubious Consent, Heavy Angst, Infidelity, Jealous John, Jealous John Watson, Jealousy, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, PTSD Sherlock, Past Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock is a Mess, Tom Hiddleston Fancast As Victor Trevor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-02-06 15:07:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12820161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SociallyIneptDork/pseuds/SociallyIneptDork
Summary: Sherlock wasn't sure how it happened.One moment they're in each others faces, hands clenched at their sides as they spat out insults and curses, and the next, the space between them had been closed. Sherlock's skin tingled where the tips of John's fingers touched, feeling as if he was laid bare before the other man all of a sudden, nothing but a few layers of flimsy clothing between John's calloused hands and his bare flesh.When John crashed their lips together, Sherlock couldn't help but think that it's too soon. It was too soon after all that had happened, and John's fingers burned through Sherlock's paper skin without any thought for the ashes he'd be leaving behind.





	1. You And Your Words Left Me Defenseless

**Author's Note:**

> Dubious consent ahead, heavy angst. It will get worse before it gets better. There's a lot of Sherlock whump here. Believe me, I'm mad at me too.

Sherlock wasn't sure how it happened.

One moment they're in each others faces, hands clenched at their sides as they spat out insults and curses, and the next, the space between them had been closed. Sherlock's skin tingled where the tips of John's fingers touched, feeling as if he was laid bare before the other man all of a sudden, nothing but a few layers of flimsy clothing between John's calloused hands and his bare flesh. John's thumb grazed over the skin of Sherlock's neck, an almost tickling sensation if it weren't so intimate and almost frightening in the context of the situation.

John's deep blue eyes stared into Sherlock's, darkness and anger swirling in them. Sherlock's mind palace supplied him with a quote that didn't exactly calm his nerves.

_“Start somewhere mundanely recognizable-”_

John's eyes, John's hands, _home_.

_“-and then go elsewhere. Nothing is more terrifying than the familiar being made into something completely different.”_

The flames dancing in John's eyes, the trembling in John's hands, the coldness that filled 221B Baker Street now that its two tenants had fallen from grace. The loyal soldier who lost all faith and the unfeeling machine who broke his own heart loving a human who didn't believe him capable of such things. John tightened his grip on Sherlock's shirt, his blue eyes a fire that Sherlock didn't know how to put out.

“I could have you right here if I wanted you,” he said through gritted teeth after several moments.

_And do you want me?_ Sherlock longed to ask, yet wisely kept his mouth shut, afraid that if he were to open his traitorous mouth, something he didn't mean to say would stumble out instead. Something sentimental and absolutely ridiculous like _John, I can be better, for you_ or _don't leave again, please, I can't bear the silence_. Instead, Sherlock gritted his teeth together and clenched his jaw, looking back at John stubbornly as the older man glared thunderously at him.

Perhaps they'd had too much too drink.

When John crashed their lips together, Sherlock couldn't help but think that it's too soon. It was too soon after all that had happened, and John's fingers burned through Sherlock's paper skin without any thought for the ashes he'd be leaving behind. It felt _wrong_. This kiss was not the gentle, loving, unhurried kisses that Sherlock had thought about at night during his absence- and if he were to be honest with himself, even after he'd returned, though the times he did think about it from then on were often filled with shame and self-loathing. The kiss was rough, all teeth and tongue and bruising hands on his hips; rushed, devouring, needy.

This kiss was not a declaration of love. It was a marking, a claim of ownership, a fight for dominance though Sherlock was not trying to fight anymore.

He was done fighting.

He had given up on fighting ever since the morgue.

The wall was hard against his back, and John's touches made the butterflies in his stomach wilt and turn to ash in his mouth. He wanted more, yet at the same time, he knew this was not what he wanted at all; a dream turned into something perverse and dark, like wanting a puppy and having a wolf deposited onto your lap. An intoxicated and upset John was not how he wanted his first time with the man to go. _John, wait,_ he wanted to say, but this is what John wanted, and Sherlock owed him no less. After a few seconds of deliberation, he kept his silence, and remained pliant and giving under the rough and unforgiving hands that laid claim to him and his body.

If his body was meant to be a temple, then who was it dedicated to?

John shed his shirt easily, revealing well-toned biceps and the physique of a soldier that had spent the last few years less active than he used to be, yet underneath the layer of softness Sherlock could easily see where the hard muscle once was. “God,” John moaned into Sherlock's skin, biting and licking and using that devilish tongue of his on every inch of skin he could find. “Fucking hell, Sherlock.”

_Is that meant to be praise?_

John met his eyes then, once Sherlock was disheveled from his hands, shirt undone and open, revealing pasty white skin underneath. “Is this- do you want this?” he asked, and Sherlock wasn't sure how to answer. Was this what he wanted? _No. No, this isn't what I want. Stop. For God's sake, just please-_ Sherlock nodded, deciding that it was easier to agree before his nerves got the best of him.

He had craved John's touch, in whichever way that came for so long, and now John was above him ready to engage in intercourse; yet, in a cruel twist of fate Sherlock wasn't as euphoric or blissful as he'd thought he'd be. John grinned at him, softness in his eyes for a moment before he returned to his quest of undressing the consulting detective in front of him. As he unbuttoned and slid the shirt off, he led them into whichever bedroom they could get to- John's, as Sherlock's was locked- and they stumbled in up the stairs and didn't let go of each other for more than two seconds.

_Let him do what he wants, he's entitled._

–

It all started out with a man flirting with Sherlock during a case. They had to go to a club to try and find the perpetrator who was targeting homosexual men who fit Sherlock's description: tall, lanky, dark curly hair, and intelligent or somehow powerful. So naturally Sherlock went, left a note on the fridge, and tried to find whoever was conning and pulling giant scams on men like him. Hacking, identity theft, stealing of things not really important for money but for power. Not to mention the fact that there seemed to be something bigger behind the scenes, as if these scams and thefts were part of something else. It was interesting, and as he sat in the club with skintight jeans and his violet dress shirt on, his hair styled fashionably with copious amounts of gel, he knew he was eye-candy for someone who would be drawn to him like a bee was drawn to honey.

When he finally found the man- blond, military background, bright blue eyes- he couldn't help but be drawn to him and his aura of power and control. Sebastian was his name, and he was just an inch or two taller than Sherlock, but Sherlock was sure that he could win the fight if only because he knew how to fight dirty. So he sat down next to the man, talked him up, maybe batted his eyes just a bit more than necessary as he picked the man's pocket for damning evidence. Sebastian was _very_ responsive and had drunk more than was responsible, slurring his words and leaning forward a bit too close.

_If this is the closest thing to intimacy I get in four years if from a drunken identity thief and expert hacker, I'll take it,_ Sherlock mentally told himself, leaning forward enough for their lips to graze, before Captain Watson stormed in and yanked them apart from each other. “Hey! What gives, man? Find yourself your own!” Sebastian had shouted, face red with anger at having his toy get pulled out of his reach. Sherlock looked between the both of them, before he realized that John had been in the corner of the bar the entire time watching. And drinking. Definitely not good.

“Shut. Your. Mouth,” John snapped through gritted teeth, his voice low and dangerous. “He's _mine_.” And as if to prove his point, John pulled Sherlock towards him, pressing his lips against Sherlock before giving Sebastian a dirty finger and dragging his detective away. As Sherlock trailed after him, he could feel the rage flowing off of him in waves, but he remained quiet lest he say the wrong thing and have John erupt.

–

John remained silent until they got off the cab and then rounded on him, slamming the door. “How fucking _dare_ you.”

“How dare I?” Sherlock snapped back, finding that he had more anger in him than he'd expected, something akin to shame and bitterness making his mouth taste like rust and dirt. “I was doing it for a case! One that you ruined, so _thanks_ for that. Now we'll have to spend a longer time trying to pinpoint his location again, and by then he'd have ruined who knows how many lives.”

John scoffed, turning his head away for a second. “You make me sick, Sherlock, do you bloody know that, you prick? You make me _sick_.”

Sherlock stood his ground, tilting his chin up and forcing himself to breathe, telling himself that the ache in his chest will fade away in time list it always did. _I know._

“Going out and snogging a hacker- are you that lonely? Is that how far gone you've gotten, you're willing to fuck a fucking criminal?”

Sherlock scowled at him, his fingers clenching into fists. “I knew what I was doing, John. I was trying to make him trust me enough to say something that could give me a clue – just a small clue- that could help me figure out his motives.” He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring back at John who seethed in front of him. “And if I did decide to snog him, I don't see why it's any of your business. If you have something against my homosexual leanings, then you're perfectly free to leave the moment it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable?”

“Well, every time that you're asked about your sexuality you always defensively retort that you are in no way, shape or form attracted to men. You clam up, start stammering and become almost aggressive in your defense of your fragile masculinity. Really, if you thought that I would be the type to try and hold you back from leaving, you must not know me that well at all. _Go_. Find yourself another woman that you can settle down with, though with your taste- one assassin, one doctor who dated you even after being abducted and nearly killed, and one librarian who was once a drug addict- yes a drug addict, believe me, it takes one to know one and I can read it off her easily- then perhaps it's better if you don't, spare the world a-”

John shoved him roughly then, and Sherlock staggered back until his back was against the wall.

_“What are you doing? Wake up!”_

Sherlock closed his eyes as he braced himself, the anger bleeding away until nothing was left except for sadness and fear. He felt the energy and fight leave him, his shoulders slumping as he stared into the eyes on front of him. A few moments of stillness and silence passed, as neither of them knew how to continue from here. Sherlock slowly, slowly, reached his hand up to rest on John's wrist, looking into the hurting and angry eyes in front of him. “What do you want from me, John?” he asked, voice soft and gentle, open, needing to know if he wanted to keep laying in the ruins of what they were. “Just tell me.”

–

John's hands were trembling with need and desperation as he helped Sherlock out of his trousers, leaving the dark-haired man dressed in nothing but his thin black boxers. John hovered over him in his black trousers, still half clothed, pushing him back onto the bed until he's edging back and John was inching forward, straddling him.

John moved in small circles over Sherlock's crotch, his teeth grit tight and his eyes filled with desire and heat. A broken whimper left Sherlock before he bit down on his lip and threw an arm over his face, trying to hide the heat in his cheeks. John moved clumsily, ripping off his jeans and pants, tossing them onto the floor before he yanked off Sherlock's boxers as well, leaving them skin-to-skin. “God,” John whispered, leaning down and pressing his lips against Sherlock's collarbone, slowly inching his way downwards the porcelain body beneath him, trying to ignore every scar he came across. Trying to ignore _the_ scar in the middle of Sherlock's solar plexus that was still obvious against the rest of his pale skin. “I fucking love you, you bastard.”

_Too soon,_ Sherlock thought but didn't have the nerve to say out loud as John opened up a pack of rubbers and worked on spreading him with thick, broad fingers that burned on their way inside of him. _It's too soon. We should stop, this is- this isn't- John._

_John!_

–

Sherlock looked over to where John was, lying on his bed, and carefully maneuvered himself out of the man's embrace. He gathered his clothes and with one last parting look at John, left the room. He barely made it to the toilet before his stomach emptied itself, throwing up everything he'd eaten in two days. Leaning on the wall, he felt cold sweat cover his entire body, his limbs trembling as he pressed himself against the tiles in the hope that the coldness would help the pulsing ache of his entire body. He hurt in ways that he'd never hurt before. Not even the withdrawals he got from cocaine had hurt like this, or left him feeling like a used up and battered toy.

As he pathetically remained sitting naked on the tiles, he let himself slip into his mind palace and tried to sort through everything that happened in spite of the pounding behind his eyes. The encounter with Sebastian was the simplest problem to solve, and he'd managed to pick his pocket so he could deal with the case in the morning and probably have it solved by tomorrow night. As for what happened at the bar, Sherlock wasn't quite sure what that was either. He just knew that he felt need in a way that he hadn't before, like a bird wanting to soar- trying to fly and falling to the ground. When Sebastian touched him, he felt _things_ and so he breathed it in and the alcohol in his blood made him reckless enough to try and _touch_.

_Simple_. Alcohol plus touch deprivation equals need and human impulses once his self restraint and control was reduced by the alcohol.

Sherlock opened his eyes, not knowing how to deal with the problem with John. What was the problem anyway? They had sex. So what? It was no big deal. It was all just transport, anyway, what happened between them was completely irrelevant. John was a grieving man and Sherlock was his outlet for his grief and need for the night; there was no complicated chain of events, it was just a cause and effect. Sherlock daren't let himself believe or hope that anything would actually come of the encounter. With that thought, he washed his mouth out and stood, walking to his bedroom and locking the door behind him.

Emptiness. Numbness. Hollowness. He felt nothing at all, his eyes tired and his limbs heavy. It felt like he'd had something important carved out of his chest and there was nothing left but a gaping hole that dripped blood at his feet. By the end of the night he'd have filled the room with enough blood to drown him if he didn't do anything about it. With trembling fingers he pulled out his phone and set a single text.

_Tell me everything you know about Sebastian Moran. -SH_

He received his response a few minutes later. _It's fucking 2:30 in the morning, Sherlock. We've talked about this. Is something wrong? I mean, you don't usually text at 3. Anymore, anyway. Talk to me. What's wrong? -GL_

Sherlock was horrified to find that his when he read the text, his vision was blurry with tears. He forced himself to breathe past the burning in his chest and the tightening in his throat. It was fine, he was fine. Nothing was wrong. _I don't know what you mean. I need to know about the case, Greg. I just... can't sleep. -SH_

The sob that left his throat burned and it felt like there wasn't enough oxygen on Earth to support him and his shattering soul. It felt like something was ripping inside of him, breaking and fraying and burning. He didn't know why he was crying, it was a stupid emotional response, but he knew that it all just hurt _so much_ and he wanted someone to make the hurt go away. His wrists itched with the urge to fall back on old habits, but he let his pillows absorb his tears until he didn't have any tears left to cry.

_Sherlock... is this a danger night? Should I come over? I can, it's fine if you need me. I'll be there in 20. -GL_

_NO! That's not necessary, Greg. I'm fine. Really. -SH_

Sherlock didn't want Greg to come over and find out. Greg, who could take one look at him and know when he was using or when he was about to start using. Greg, who was the only person aside for Mycroft who seemed to be able to understand him without him needing to say a single word. Greg, who would probably start asking questions that Sherlock wouldn't know how to answer when he saw the state of Sherlock. Yet, a small part of him wanted Greg to come over, not to speak to but to hold onto, because when he was in Greg's arms, Sherlock could always feel Greg's feet holding the both of them up.

_Sure? -GL_

_Yeah. -SH_

And that was the end of the conversation, and Sherlock breathed a little better just knowing that Greg was there, just a bit out of reach, ready to help him and hold him if he needed it. For the moment he settled for climbing into the shower and trying to scrub the dirt out of his skin, rubbing until he was red and raw and until he was sure that none of the dirt was still on his skin. When he laid down to sleep though, he could still feel it, the dirtiness, wriggling underneath his skin. He closed his eyes until he managed to fall asleep, waking in the morning with a weariness in his bones and eyes.

John was already up when Sherlock entered the kitchen, fixing himself some tea and looking up at Sherlock with his guileless baby blue's. “Mornin' sunshine. What happened last night?”

He didn't remember. He didn't remember a single bloody thing.

_You said you loved me. How could you forget that? Forget me? Forget everything? How can you curse me to be the only one to remember what happened last night?_

Sherlock wanted to scream, to get into John's face and shout, but he just blinked at the cup of tea being placed into his hands for a few seconds before he shrugged. It was easier to avoid unwanted conversations by telling a different truth. A modified truth. “Nothing of import happened. A case, a few too many bottles of beer and then we headed home. Dull. I wish I could forget it at well to clear up some space for new information and not have it clogging up my hard drive.” _I want to forget it too. You lucky bastard._

_“Ah_ , alright then” John responded, nodding his head. His eyes darted to his watch, and he looked back up at Sherlock, whose eyes had remained fixed on him. “Well, I've got to work at the surgery today. I'll be home late, so don't wait up for me. Meeting,” John told him quickly, finished his tea, then set off to get ready for work. Sherlock stared after him, feeling a stinging in his eyes that stayed long after John had left the kitchen.

 


	2. I’m Searching and Scanning For Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock scowled, his brows knitting together as something crackled inside of his chest. He was so tired of playing this game, of pretending, of suffering alone. “Because sentiment is nothing more than a weakness, and I have been made aware of how devastating it truly can be. It's stupid to try and love when all you do won't be enough for the other person.” He stared directly into John's eyes, challenging him, trying to get a reaction from him for once. “Human beings are fickle when it comes to love and romance, I've learned. It's painfully easy for them to change their minds- the heart is an untamable creature, after all- and for some, it's even easy to forget they ever felt that way at all.”
> 
> John stared right back. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice low, confused but not enough so that he didn't know that the conversation had taken a turn. “How can someone possibly... forget?”
> 
> The moisture in Sherlock's eyes persisted. “You tell me.”

Sebastian Moran was James Moriarty's partner of ten years before the fall. After that he went into a depression, suffered from alcoholism and misanthropy, previous trust issues that he'd gotten from being a soldier being brought back full force. He watched as Moriarty's network crumbled, not moving a finger to stop it, doing simple assassinations and other jobs for whoever paid the right price. Moriarty had trained him well, teaching him how to hack the most secure databases, how to steal anyone's identity, how to rewire a government from the inside.

By the time that Sherlock had figured this all out, he received a text from Mycroft telling him that the case was being taken out of his hands. _[No need to bother yourself with such a trivial case. I'm sure you have other things to occupy your time. -MH]_

Sherlock glared at the screen petulantly, not wanting to admit that _no_ , he didn't. He felt physically sick at the thought of being alone with nothing to keep his mind from wandering deep into the unknown and return with only a deep sense of hopelessness and heartache. The flat's shadows ominously stared at Sherlock and if he stopped his breathing for long enough, he could almost feel the way the entire flat _pulsed_ with sentience.

It was quiet. _Eerily_ quiet. The type of quiet that could make your ears ring and hearts pound with fear from the unknown and unseeable; there was something _just barely_ detectable there and you knew it. You couldn't see or hear it, but you could _feel_ it in way that left your hair standing on end. While the silence normally didn't bother Sherlock before, today the silence was too much, it left far too much room for his thoughts to run amok.

_“Mine,” John had breathed against Sherlock's skin. “You're mine, Sherlock. Nobody else's. You're mine and-” He didn't finish the sentence, breaking off into a growl instead. Sherlock could only wonder if John was about to say that he was Sherlock's. Sherlock could only hope and dream of a world in which he had. “I need you. I need you to be mine only.”_

The violin did nothing to soothe his nerves, and after playing for several minutes with shaky fingers, he decided to simply leave the flat altogether. The brittle London wind greeted him, reminding him of how quick the seasons had gone from warm and cheery days to foggy and rainy days. Sherlock didn't know where he was going, he just knew that he had to _leave_ because if he didn't, the darkness would be wearing him come morning.

Somehow, his feet found the NSY, and hesitantly, he entered and found his way to Greg's office. It took a while for Greg to register his presence- he startled, nearly spilled his coffee, and let out a long stream of inventive curses as he clutched his chest- but when he did, it only took a few seconds for Greg's eyes to soften once he'd recognized Sherlock and had gotten over the little fright he'd gotten. “Sherlock,” he said, voice rumbling and soft, like the thunder that always soothed Sherlock's worries during childhood. It frightened Mummy, but to Sherlock, the thunder was good; thunder meant he could stay at home, where it was safe and the kids at school couldn't get him. It meant that the sky crackled and snapped sometimes too, that the skies sometimes couldn't handle the pressure and broke under it.

The thunder made him feel like somewhere above him, someone was breaking too.

Greg's eyes scanned over Sherlock, analyzing him. It was eerily similar to the look Mycroft gave him while deducing him, which made a connection form in Sherlock's mind like lightning shooting off in his brain cells. _Distract him. Distance yourself._ “You've been in Mycroft's company for extended of periods of time then, I see. Is it romantic in nature or purely a friends-with-benefits kind of thing?”

“Sherlock,” Greg said, his tone chiding and a small frown on his face before his brows unfurrowed and he grinned proudly, his eyes twinkling. “I'll have you know it's a fully rounded relationship with all the perks and benefits and annoyances. I mean, he's not using me for sex or anything, and I'm very sure he cares for me as much as I do him but you know how your brother can be so bloody cryptic sometimes. It's serious though, and we've even been talking about moving into one house, so there's that.”

“Oh?” Sherlock smiled for him, yet felt an ache in his chest that was beginning to grow familiar. His soul was bleeding out from inside of him, and it seemed that there was no end to it in sight. His heart was too raw and frayed, his armor shattered and the bundle of quivering, whimpering emotions shoved underneath the steel and leather had been revealed. Vaguely, he wondered if others could see it as well, if they detected the pain and suffering in his eyes, heard the silent screams when he spoke.

“Yeah,” Greg all but breathed, the smile that was playing on his lips seconds earlier beginning to fade, as his eyes continued to scrutinize Sherlock. Sherlock could see the thoughts, the doubts, the questions beginning to swirl around in his brain.

_Coming here had been a mistake._

Greg let out a soft breath. “How's John, Sherlock?”

“John? John is- John is John. He's fine. He's back to working at the clinic.” Greg hummed at Sherlock's words, his silence disconcerting. The silence was enough to suffocate someone, the tension palpable. They stared at each other, and it was all Sherlock could do not to flinch away from the look he'd often been on the end on throughout his relationship with the older man. Greg had, after all, learned to watch out for his _signs_ , for the warning signs that Sherlock was off, and usually Sherlock had no problem with it. It was routine, ordinary, _boring_.

Today though... today was different.

The door slammed open, and one of the younger officers began talking to Greg in rapid-fire fashion, giving all the necessary details he needed for some new case. Sherlock didn't bother to listen for details. He left as soon as he could excuse himself without drawing suspicion, covered in cold sweat as he all but ran out of Greg's office when nobody looked. He couldn't drop his cover. Couldn't be found out. It was like being a fugitive all over again, except this time it was worse.

Because he technically shouldn't even be hiding.

Because nobody was looking for him this time.

Because nobody knew that he was hiding in the first place.

He still didn't understand exactly what was wrong, but that night cold sweat enveloped his entire body and his heart tried to fly free from his chest. A piece of him wished that it managed to, so perhaps the pain would go away just for a little while and he could stop staring at the locked door and staring at the light that streamed in from underneath it to track for movement.

_“You like this?” John growled into his ear. “You're a bit of a pretty boy, you know that? You look real beautiful like this; real_ wrecked _. Hard to act all posh now, I bet. Say my name. I want to hear you scream for me.”_

_“John,” Sherlock breathed into the sheets, his knuckles white as he held onto whatever he could to ground himself. “John- please.”_

\---

John really didn't remember. Sherlock, thinking back on the night, deduced that John must have assumed that the mess on his sheets was his own and because he saw no evidence to the contrary, thought that he'd stumbled into his bed intoxicated and jerked off until he fell asleep. Sherlock felt different around him, waiting for the other shoe to drop; waiting to be consumed by the pools of doubt and fear and suffering pooling at his feet. John continued on, not knowing what was wrong. There had been a rift between them for so long that he must not have noticed that anything had changed, or he might have chalked it up to Sherlock being Sherlock, a puzzle that couldn't be solved.

Sherlock didn't really know anymore, and frankly he was glad for it. Ignorance was bliss, as the common people said. He never agreed with it before, but now...

It had been two weeks since he'd had a case, and Sherlock couldn't bring himself to check the website. Most days he ghosted through the city's streets and stayed in hole-in-the-wall cafe's, or he found his way to different parks on the other side of the city. The weather was as gloomy as he was, and most days it rained, the sky gray and lifeless above him, a perfect reflection of the state of his mind and heart.

If John noticed Sherlock avoiding him, he said nothing. Sherlock certainly didn't say anything. He didn't have anything _to_ say; his words turned to ash on his tongue and the silence in the flat was fraught with a heaviness and melancholia that couldn't be described. He just kept staring out the window on the days he stayed at home, watching the sky change from orange to black; he watched the townsfolk come and go. In the end, they all went.

In the end nothing remained but the mourning night sky and the dust collecting in the flat.

In the end there was nothing but the ashes left from the fire.

\---

So many years of education, and yet nobody had ever thought it would be important to teach people how to love themselves.

He turned away from the mirror, carefully putting on a shirt that covered the scars that never seemed to fade enough for him to forget what happened. Briefly, he wished he had scars for everything that had played a hand in making him cold in heart, just so he could show to others what made him so distrusting and wary of new faces. He wished he had scars for that night, so he could turn to John and tell him _look at what sentiment has done to me_.

Yet there were no scars, and of all the people who populated the Earth, Sherlock was the only one who truly knew what happened that night. John was not an unkind lover. Sherlock did not bleed nor was he sore the day after, the only marks left were those he left with his teeth and the faint ones on Sherlock's hips and biceps where he'd unintentionally dug his fingers in too deep. Perhaps it would have been easier if John were a cruel man, but he wasn't; Sherlock was left physically satisfied yet hollow in his chest.

Sherlock did his best to try to push the matter out of his mind, trying to lock the night into some secluded wing of his mind palace. To some extent, he succeeded, as long as he didn't have anything that forced the memories back forward. He thought he had gotten a handle on things. That is, until the night where everything seemed to crumble from underneath him as he and John sat across from each other in the kitchen.

“Sherlock?” John said suddenly, and Sherlock looked up from the plate he'd been given. He hadn't eaten the food so much as he'd observed it, but John seemed to be content with him simply giving him company during dinner. “As my friend- as my most trusted associate- what do you suppose I should do with my life? After everything that's happened, do you think I'm even fit to live a life of excitement anymore, or should I just turn in and live a more placid lifestyle?”

Sherlock took a sip of water, not knowing how this conversation was meant to go. “I enjoy having you by my side,” he responded softly, unsure if it was the right answer. Pools of doubt lapped around his knees, and he knew how quickly it would turn to concrete if he made a mistake in this.“I wouldn't know what to do with myself if you weren't here to accompany me on my... adventures.”

John canted his head. “Yes, but I'm sure you're growing tired of having _me_ by your side all the time. We're not getting younger, it might be time for you to try to find someone to settle down with as well.”

“I'm not interested.” _You. You were supposed to be that 'someone'._

“Why is it that you're not interested?” John asked, looking up at Sherlock with concerned and imploring blue eyes and something in Sherlock-

_snapped_.

Sherlock scowled, his brows knitting together as something crackled inside of his chest. He was so tired of playing this game, of pretending, of suffering alone. “Because sentiment is nothing more than a weakness, and I have been made aware of how devastating it truly can be. It's stupid to try and love when all you do won't be enough for the other person.” He stared directly into John's eyes, challenging him, trying to get a reaction from him for once. “Human beings are fickle when it comes to love and romance, I've learned. It's painfully easy for them to change their minds- the heart is an untamable creature, after all- and for some, it's even easy to forget they ever felt that way at all.”

John stared right back. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice low, confused but not enough so that he didn't know that the conversation had taken a turn. “How can someone possibly... forget?”

The moisture in Sherlock's eyes persisted. “You tell me.”

Doubt crept into John's eyes then, a gradual realization dawning upon him as his hands clenched into fists on the table. Not from anger this time- a way to ground himself, a way to keep his head above the waters of uncertainty. “I don't understand,” he finally admitted, his eyes searching for some type of answer.

“You told me that I was yours,” Sherlock breathed, swallowing thickly. Tremulously, he forced himself to to continue through the tears blurring his vision. “That night- that night that you _forgot_ \- you told me you _needed_ me. You said that I- that you- you said you _loved_ me.” His voice broke, and he could only sit there, trying to battle the trembling of his entire body. His lip trembled as well, and before he could stop it tears made their way down his face.

Horrified and speechless, John could only stare back at Sherlock as he fought to get a handle on his emotions. Wide eyes watched him as he bit his lip to keep from breaking down further. “Sherlock.” John's voice was tight, small, and his own tears glistened as he realized the extent of what he'd done. “Oh my god. Sherlock. Sherlock, I'm sorry. I don't under- I don't remember- I can't- what _happened_?”

Caught between numbness and anguish, Sherlock let out a choked laugh, which sounds horrible and broken even to his own ears. “We got home after you saw me and the client getting _too friendly_ for your tastes. We had a rather heated argument. You pushed me against the wall, kissed me, then led me into your bed. Things progressed from there.”

_Clinical_. It sounded like something one might read from a police report. Sherlock was too tired for this conversation, he wanted nothing more than to sleep and wake up only when spring comes.

“Did you- did you... want to- I mean, did I... Did you want to have sex?”

Sherlock could only stare at him, not having it in him to answer anymore, partly in fear of saying it out loud and partly because he's worried that the wrong word would cause John Watson to crumble in front of him.

John stood, the chair crashing to the ground. “Oh my god. You didn't want to have sex. That's rape. You didn't _want_ to have sex! I- I-I raped you.” The tears filled his eyes as he whispered sharply, incapable of raising his voice any louder, but he blinked them away.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, “I could have fought back. I _could_ have stopped things. You asked me if I was- if I was a consenting party and- and I _did_ say yes. You didn't brutalize me.”

“Still.” John's hand remained clenched at his side and he leaned partially to the right. “I'm a doctor- How could I-” he stopped himself, shaking his head. Now was not about him. “You said yes, but you didn't mean it? You wanted out, is that right? But you didn't say anything?”

Sherlock nodded, placing his head in his hands. He could hear the rain beating a violent pattern on the window like pellets crashing against the glass. John was silent, picking up the chair and sinking into it. For a few minutes nobody said anything, but John was the one to break it. “How can I fix what I've done? This is not something that I can even ask forgiveness for. If you decide to press charges, I won't stand in your way. I'll plead guilty. Just... tell me how to make it up to you.”

Sherlock could only shrug. “I don't know, John.” _And I don't like not knowing._

John nodded as if he didn't hear what Sherlock had said. “I'll pack my things- and no, Sherlock, don't argue with me, please- I'll leave. I'll leave, and I'll give you time to recover from what happened. I don't think my presence will do much to make you feel safer or better about it. If there's anything I know about, it's trauma, and I really think that you need some time away from... me.”

Sherlock's heart sped up at the idea, something akin to fear and resignation rising in his chest. This felt too much like a goodbye. Sherlock had thought that he had finished saying goodbyes since he jumped from the roof. It wasn't fair for the universe to force him to say goodbye over and over again. Over and over again to John. Whom he loved. “I don't want you to go.”

John thought on it for a few seconds before coming onto a conclusion. “Then I'll leave for a bit and you can decide at the end of it how you want to do things. Say, 6 months? And I'll call or we can meet up, and then... decide from there what to do. What do you say?”

"You're running from your problems again," Sherlock mumbled, and John's eyes were pink with unshed tears. They both knew that played a hand in what was happening, because John had always been a self-blaming, self-loathing, and emotionally constipated man since the beginning who didn't know how to talk about issues properly.

John gave a mirthless smile, the shame obvious in his eyes. "Yeah," he replied. "But I still think that space is best for both of us right now."

Sherlock vaguely felt himself nodding. Within minutes John had stood and begun packing, grim determination in his eyes. The resigned and weary soldier being deployed back into the front lines of battle, ready for anything. Sherlock stood when he had all his bags in his hands, and didn't know how to go from there.

“Well... goodbye then. For now,” John said, looking around the flat for the last time in a while. “I'm sorry, Sherlock. Truly, I hope I can find a way to make this better for you. I wish that this is enough to make the trauma fade, even just a little bit.”

Sherlock crossed his arms, hugging himself. “If this time away doesn't work? Would you come back?”

John hesitantly nodded. Sherlock knew it wasn't the entire truth, but he couldn't bring himself to say that out loud. After a few seconds of staring at one another John gave him a brief nod to say goodbye and walked out the door. Sherlock watched him, listened to his limping steps, and closed his eyes at the sound of the door slamming downstairs.

When he opened them, he couldn't help but feel like the entire world was a pool of gray. Outside, thunder roared, lighting up the flat in a bright flash of light before the darkness resumed its reign over the flat. Even the music was swallowed up by the silence, and every note he played sounded like silence and out of place. Placing down the violin once again, he felt the entire universe grieve with him.

For that was what he was going through: he was grieving.

He was grieving someone who was alive.

He was grieving someone who had once grieved him even though _he_ was alive.

What an odd little universe. A merciless, capricious universe where everything happened without rhyme or reason and there was no meaning to anything. What was the point of life? They were all just blips of light in an ever-expanding darkness; small flashes of life in an infinite timeline. Nothing had meaning, not really; soon, the east wind would come along and swallow all of them up. Sherlock couldn't _wait_.

\---

When Greg suddenly showed up at his flat and wrapped him in his arms, Sherlock couldn't help but find it unsurprising. With teary eyes, Greg embraced him as if he was trying to pull the broken pieces of him back together with his grip alone. Sherlock couldn't help but shut his eyes and breathed in the comfort, allowing himself to indulge in it for once. “Oh, Sherlock.”

“I'm fine,” Sherlock said, more as an instinctual response than anything.

_“I don't want to lose you,” Greg had told him with a sigh, sitting beside him as he lay semi-conscious on the hospital bed waiting for Mycroft to come. Sherlock blinked blearily at the wall, too sedated to feel anything except for the pounding of his head._

_“Maybe I want to be lost,” Sherlock mumbled back, his limbs still heavy from what he'd put into his body. “I'm broken, but that doesn't mean I want to be fixed or saved by a cop with some weird savior complex. I'm broken and I wanna stay broken.”_

Greg smiled a wet smile at him. “I know. I know you are, sunshine.”

There was a few beats of silence, and Sherlock wondered how he must have looked to Greg; there he stood, an ex-junkie with a propensity towards self-destruction, a proud and vain man who hid everything behind his snark and icy eyes, now broken and battered. Sherlock wondered if Greg remembers their early days together like he did, if Greg still remembered how Sherlock- who was still going by the name William at the time- had been bloodied and bruised time and time again but wasn't sober enough to care too much about it. Sherlock wondered if Greg ached at the idea that here he was again, torn apart by love, metaphorically bloodied again because of sentiment.

He'd truly gone full-circle.

He'd gone from an emotional and broken teenager to a cold and detached adult and right back to emotional and weary. Sherlock was _tired_ of pretending not to feel, for he felt so much that he drowned in it when he couldn't control the waves that washed over him. “Will you help me? I don't think- I can't imagine trying to do this alone.”

Greg nodded in response. “Of course. You don't even have to ask.” And so that was that. Greg showed up every day or when he could, and when he couldn't come Mrs Hudson made food for Sherlock. Days turned into weeks and Sherlock couldn't help but think that six months was an awfully long time for him to spend in solitude. He missed John, missed having someone around, missed having someone who he could come home to and watch the telly with.

The bi-weekly therapy sessions that Mycroft had prodded him to attend weren't exactly a sufficient source of social interaction or human companionship. When he voiced this to Mrs Hudson she looked at him like a sympathetic mother might look at her child while said child had just come home after a day of torment at school.

It reminded Sherlock of the way his own mother looked when he came home with a bruise on his cheek that one time in tenth grade. His mum had thrown quite a fit over it, saying that she didn't pay for his education just so he could come home with a bruise, but he just laid on his bed and didn't acknowledge anything anyone said. Mycroft made his way into Sherlock's room that night, sitting at the desk and nonchalantly reading a book. “Alexander Klyn, grade 11?” he asked finally, and Sherlock nodded into his pillow.

Alexander never spoke to him again after that, and he stopped coming to school a month later. Sherlock never definitively found out what happened to him but some said that he'd migrated to the States due to some type of problem his father had with work. Mycroft had played a hand in that, no doubt.

“Then why don't you try talking to other people? Join an app or something, find a flatshare, maybe even go to the bar for a good time,” she suggested, and then an idea popped into her head. “Oh! Look on your website, dear, I'm sure a lot of people would be happy to meet you. People regularly leaves messages there, and one man said he'd love to meet up with you again. Victor, I think it was?”

\---

Sherlock checked the website, only to find that indeed, Victor had left a message. One that thankfully wasn't posted on the main forum but was a private message, as it was rather intimate and personal in nature, far too personal to be seen by eyes that wasn't his own.

[Dearest William,

I hope my message finds you in good health. You've made quite a name for yourself. The doctor's writings are interesting, and I do not doubt the authenticity of them for a second. I know you, after all, I've always known that between the two of us you were capable of achieving greatness. It's been a long time- far too long than is excusable really- since we last spoke. I'm sure that you know why I had to leave, after all that brilliant and wonderful mind of yours seems to always know things it shouldn't ;) but I'll admit it here, behind the safety of a screen. During our association I was happier than I could remember ever being in the company of anyone else' at the time, and I truly regret leaving so abruptly and without warning. I was a coward. My father had found out about the extent of our closeness and threatened that I be removed from his will if I continued on with my “sinful and immoral sexual conduct”, and you know that I couldn't bear to not be able to finish uni. It's been our dream for so long that to not be able to finish would have brought me great shame and sadness. When Eliza died, I _vowed_ to dedicate myself to our shared passion: arts and literature, and so I accepted my father's offer to let me finish uni in America.

So please, forgive me for not being a man enough to be able to stand up against my fathers wishes. I hope you view this with a mercy. I would love to be able to see you once again, William. I have missed you these years. It's been many years, far too many for me to assume anything would come of this, but I do still consider us friends and I hope you would take some time to meet up with an old friend now that I'm back in London. 07700 900248 is my number if you want to drop me a line.

Very Sincerely Yours,

Victor Trevor]

Sherlock let out a shaky breath he didn't know he was holding, his chest warm and his eyes blurred with tears. “Victor,” he whispered to the empty flat, surprised that after all these years Victor still cared for him so deeply. After the hurt and anger at Victor's sudden disappearance, he'd thought little of the other man through the following years. With a trembling hand, he saved Victor's number on his phone and hesitantly typed up a message.

 

_Victor walked into the classroom, wearing a teal shirt, his hair a mess of golden and caramel locks. He looked around the room, then, spotting the empty one beside the dark-haired boy with his nose buried in a chemistry textbook, strode over. “Hello there, darling, can I ask a question?-”_

[This will determine our continued communication, so answer wisely. SH]

_Victor took a seat as the dark-haired boy looked up and met his eye, curious now. “Go ahead.”_

[I'm listening.] was the message that Sherlock received and he couldn't bite back the smile on his face.

_A grin split across Victor's face. “Have you read the Importance-”_

[-of Being Earnest? -SH] Sherlock typed out before he clicked send.

_Sherlock, befuddled, nodded. “Why do you ask?”_

[Of course I have. :D] Victor replied.

_“Because, you see, you're quite handsome enough to drive anyone Wilde,” Victor said, and Sherlock burst into surprised laughter at the unconventional pick up line._

Sherlock broke into laughter at Victor's reply. [I'm shaking my head right now, William. I can't believe that you're reminding me of that cheesy pick up line as an ice-breaker after many years of not talking.]

[How have you been?] was the following text, and he faltered.

Thinking on the answer for a few seconds, he typed: [Things have been interesting, to say the least. When did you come back to London? -SH]

[Less than a week ago, actually. I was offered a job, and now that my father has passed I thought I would return to London. There's some official stuff I have to take care of as well, so I'll be here permanently if things go my way. Would you like to have coffee sometime?]

The last sentence was not random, but even through the phone Sherlock could detect the hesitation and nervousness of the other man. [Of course. Are you free on Saturday, say... 4 pm, at the old coffee shop we always said we'd go to? -SH] he sent, and when the other man answered in the affirmative he knew that he now had something to do, aside from spending his days in the flat and mourning the death of what could have been and grieving the loss of an almost lover.

\---

The days moved quicker then, and soon Sherlock was staring into his wardrobe and fretting on what to wear. A part of him wanted to wear his usual getup- dress shirt, slacks, suit jacket- but he hesitated as he looked at the rest of the clothes. For so long his formal wear had been an armor against the world, and he was just so _tired_ of hiding underneath shields and armor that he wanted something different. He wanted to be someone new. He wanted to be himself before the world turned him cold.

He threw on a blue jumper he'd gotten a few years ago, a gift from Mrs Hudson during winter who insisted he wore something fit for the weather. It was before he had his Belstaff coat for armor, and he distinctly remembered wearing the jumper for days at a time when he was cold, both in body and heart. Then, after Greg pulled him out of yet another drug den, he was given both a Belstaff coat and an offer to work with the NSY and Sherlock clung tightly to the mask and armor and had neglected the jumper in favor of cold and detached suits.

He left his room just as Greg entered the flat. “Hey, going somewhere?”

Sherlock nodded, looking into the mirror and fixing his hair. “Yes. Victor's messaged me, we're going to have coffee together.”

“After all this time?”

Sherlock turned to look back at Greg, a small smile playing on his lips. “What can I say? I'm bored, and he's always been the type of person to bring a little spark of excitement to anyone's lives when they're so bored they could die.”

Greg huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, well, take care. I guess I'll go visit Mrs Hudson and have a chat with her instead then. I have some cases for you as well, if you'd take them.”

Sherlock nodded, throwing on his coat and dashing out the door. “Glad to!” he shouted over his shoulder as he dashed out of the flat and called for a cab. There was something different in him and even though he couldn't put a name to it, he knew something was shifting. He just wasn't sure if it was necessarily a good or bad thing. All he knew was that the night he'd spent with John had broken some type of dam in him and now he saw how starved of the world he really was; he wanted to throw himself into love and feel it wash over him until he could no longer breathe from underneath the weight of it all.

He wanted to love so intensely it almost hurt.

He wanted to _feel_ and _touch_ and _love_ like someone that was waiting for his heart to get broken. Sherlock was lonely- he was _broken_ \- and the remains of the ancient gods in his veins had been roused from their dormancy, the ones who had swallowed stars to feel alive and bowed their knee to no man. He had centuries' worth of pain and hardship and need and desire burning in his bones and he would not stop until he'd sucked in all the love and color that the world had to offer.

He wanted to feel like he was alive, and not just existing as he waited for his oldest friend and least merciful enemy, Death, to come and collect him.

He wanted to be reckless, to let go of his inhibitions for once.

It was sentimental and purely the type of romanticizing poetic rubbish he often mocked in John's writing; he ignored the thought of John and walked into the coffee shop, looking around the crowd for the familiar face he once knew very well. 

Victor was sitting in the corner of the shop and he stood when Sherlock approached. “Oh my word, William! How have you been, friend? I can't believe it, it's really you! Who would have thought that I'd ever reunite with my favorite violin player? I've missed having someone to accompany me while I play the piano, you know. Do you play the violin for a special someone nowadays?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I'm afraid to say I haven't had much luck in the romance department. Do you still try to seduce people with your go-to piece, Debussey's Clair de Lune?” Sherlock smiled, his eyes sparkling with the light of a hundred stars.

Victor laughed, shaking his head. “No, I've learned new pieces I could use to seduce people with, actually.” A waitress came over and they both looked up, giving their orders and grinning widely at each other even as they said what they wanted. When she was gone Victor turned back to Sherlock. “What do you mean, no luck? I heard you were with that bloke, the Doctor? I've read his chronicles of your adventures, you two seemed mighty close. Close enough for the people to begin talking, anyway. I myself had assumed the same. Is it untrue?”

Sherlock looked at Victor, wondering how he could possibly explain the way things had unfolded between them. “It's a long story,” he sighed. “And it is an unfortunate one. He is, I will admit, someone I care about deeply, but things have... not gone as they should have.”

“I am willing to listen,” Victor responded, his face understanding and sober. And he did, as Sherlock laid out the story of how things had gone in front of him; sometimes they laughed, sometimes they both sat there with their throats tight. “I'm so sorry for what you went through. It's a heartbreaking story indeed,” Victor finally said, his hand moving to rest on top of Sherlock's. “I can tell that you love him, even after what had happened. Though I came here with a hope that you and I could rekindle what was there between us, I cannot help but think... that your heart now belongs to someone else entirely. The Doctor is a lucky man for you to love him so deeply.”

“John,” Sherlock corrected on instinct, then, softly. “His name is John Watson.”

Victor could only give him a sad smile in return. “Your heart belongs to John Watson,” he corrected softly, and the air surrounding them was tender. There was a tangible fragility in Sherlock's eyes, an air of brokenness and raw humanity enveloping him.

They were silent for a few seconds, before Sherlock broke it. “I do love him still, I admit that. But I also wish that we could... go back to what we were. Would you- Can we- Do you want to go and take a walk around the city?” Victor stared at him for some time, before at last he nodded, though his eyes were woeful before it passed quick as it came and he beamed at Sherlock. They left the coffee shop, and they laced their fingers together as they walked.

_John laced their fingers together, his lips pressing against the back of Sherlock's neck. Silent, as they lay together in bed, exhausted from their earlier activities. "I wish I could give you the universe, love. I wish I could give you everything. I would if you'd let me."_

_Sherlock remained silent, facing the wall that only stared back at him. His eyes blurred with tears, unable to breathe as a lump in his throat blocked his airways. He wanted nothing more than to let John love him, but somehow this didn't feel like love. Not really._

_He felt satisfied but not really._

_Safe but not really._

_Alive but not really._

Neither one acknowledged it when Sherlock pulled away from the touch, placing his hands in his coat instead.


	3. When You Were Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are undug by mistake, souls fall further yet, and the night is without mercy for the hearts of the lost.

“I have some friends coming by later,” Victor said from the kitchen as Sherlock continued perusing the book he had on his lap. He hummed noncommittally, absentmindedly running his fingers over his hair. “I've not seen them since uni, Sherlock. I think he'll be happy to see you.”

“Do I know them?” Sherlock asked, suddenly alarmed at the idea of meeting  _ people _ . He wasn't sure if it was worse to know them or not to know the people that Victor was talking about.

Victor flinched away from the stove as it hissed at him, cursing under his breath. “Yeah. Well, no. I don't know. They know you, I'm sure. Everyone knows you.”

“Yes, and they likely hated me during our time in school,” Sherlock grumbled, shaking his head. He looked around Victor's flat and stood, walking to the balcony and pulling out a cigarette. Most days he stayed here with Victor at his side in lieu of going to his empty home where Mrs Hudson just looked at him woefully and Lestrade came in to try and pull back into their world with his “ _ how are things _ ’”s and “ _ we need your help” _ ’s and “ _ if you need me…” _ ’s 

They treated him like he was something great that had fallen, something mighty that had grown weak. They kept on trying to pull him back up but he didn’t want to get up. Their world was unkind, and he saw no place for himself in it. 

Here, he was nothing great or mighty, and he was fine with that.

He could be Victor's  _ William _ once again- a man that hadn't become a detective, a man that didn't jump to his death, a man that broke and kept on breaking. He could be William- the man that fell madly in love because of his passion for music, could be the man that spent countless nights intertwined with his lover, could be the man that loved to watch the moon and lament on the lack of people who  _ saw _ the world as he did.

The days had flown right by while he was in Victor's embrace. Victor didn't ask for much, didn't assume anything, but they'd fallen into a platonic relationship of sorts. Neither of them had saw fit to talk about the way that more often than not they slept beside each other-  _ it's a cold night, just a cold night, take my warmth and let me take yours. Come morning let's not speak of this. Come morning let's hope for night so that we may be warm again, love, come night let's be together again. _

Or the way that they always seemed to curl towards each other, and Sherlock could swear for the rest of his life that he was touched more in his time with Victor than he had been touched in years. And it wasn't even anything  _ sexual _ because that was a line they didn't cross, it was simple gestures: a hand on the shoulder to steady Sherlock, a fleeting hand on his knee when they were joking, a simple hand on top of his own when they sat together. It all happened like dusk-fall- slowly, gently, mournfully, and by the time they'd noticed it had already passed.

They were something they didn't want to put a name on. And both of them were fine with that. Or at least, Victor tried to be fine with that. They'd brought it up once and then silently vowed to never speak of it again after what had been said that night.

-

It was quite a mess, after Victor had found Sherlock in a drug den once before they'd moved in together. Victor had taken Sherlock to Baker Street and pressed a rag against his face as he trembled. “What have you done to yourself now,” Victor grumbled. “Billy left you all alone and drugged up. I swear to you, I will  _ kill  _ him. You could have died.”

“I know.” And Sherlock laughed. He just laughed high and hoarse like he was shattering. He laughed like he was in pain. He laughed until Victor's eyes morphed into one of concern and sadness, staring at Sherlock in confusion. “Sherlock, you alright there?” he asked, his hand reaching forward as if to try and make sure Sherlock was really there.

“ _ You'll never be him, _ ” Sherlock said suddenly, eyes glazed over from the cocktail he'd taken, chapped lips still stuck in that horrible heartbreaking grin that held anguish in them. “We can both try to pretend but you can never be him, Victor. You and I both know-”

“That you love him,” Victor finished for him, eyes sad but resigned. “You love John, I know.”

He repeated it, softer. “I know, Sherlock, I know. But he's not here, and  _ I _ am.” He grew frustrated, his eyes filling with tears as he spoke passionately. Sherlock could only watch in silence as Victor broke right before his eyes and he could do nothing but listen.

“I'm here! Why can't you just for once forget about him and realize that  _ he's _ not here but  _ I _ am?  _ I _ love you.”

_ And I love you. But that's not enough.  _ “You should have known better. You should have chosen better.” Sherlock remained staring at the ceiling, eyes hollow. Victor sighed and left the room, and Sherlock could hear the sound of plates clattering together and a cup smashing against the wall like a gunshot. He said nothing else. When his mind was clear they said nothing else about the matter. They continued on as if it never happened, but the memory haunted their minds like a shadow lurking in wait.

Then one day Victor pressed his lips to Sherlock's palm while he was reading and said, “Move in with me.” And Sherlock, even though he knew it was insane and never going to work out, grinning in glee and said,  _ yes. Yes, yes, yes. _

-

The main person that Victor was anticipating was a man that Sherlock only vaguely remembered from uni- and that was saying a lot. There didn't seem to be anything remotely interesting about Jeremy, but he had a nice smile and warm eyes and a simple air of friendliness. He sat close to Sherlock like he'd known him all his life, and Sherlock couldn't help but laugh at Jeremy's silly jokes. Victor watched them with a warmth in his eyes, glad that they were all together in one room, talking about their most dreaded teachers and the ones they adored.

“Aye, and this woman just goes  _ Jesus is not a fucking zombie, Emmanuel! _ And I remember the whole class just breaking out into laughter. I mean- a lot can be said about Ms Marivek, but she was certainly not crass or profane, so it just surprised the hell out of us!” Jeremy said, and Sherlock laughed, taking a sip of the wine that Victor placed in his hands as they sat at the table. There were thirteen of them altogether, most of them close friends with either Jeremy or Victor, but some of them only vaguely knew one another.

The evening progressed in a normal way: they had dinner, shared stories over drinks in the living room, and then when they were all drunk to the point of silliness, they kept telling stories and kept the room alive with energy. Even Sherlock had to admit that the company was one he enjoyed, and the men seemed to all have a friendliness to them that made them easily likable. Music played in the background, and Sherlock, drunk, excused himself from the sitting room and went to the balcony for a smoke. The stars were like specks of honey across the sky, and the darkness felt like a physical presence embracing him.

“Beautiful night, isn't it?”

Sherlock looked over to glance at the man, a tall and soft-mannered bloke he'd shared a class with in first year. “Indeed it is,” he responded, and turned to face Rhett. “Always did love the nighttime. The world is always calmer during the night.”

“Aye, I understand,” he said, walking to stand beside him on the balcony. They talked amiably for some time and the beat of the music inside pulsed inside of Sherlock's skull and in his veins, and he smiled, something unraveling inside of him. Rhett handed him a cigarette, pushed a cup of liquor in his hands, and laughed with him while they stood at the edge of the universe.

Rhett's eyes slid over Sherlock, a quiet hunger in his eyes. “Victor shouldn't be leaving you here all alone.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked, but he already knew the answer.  _ Because you're helpless. _

Rhett shrugged. “You're drunk out of your mind, brother. He should be here making sure you don't go falling over or getting hurt.”

“I can take care of m'self.'

Rhett moved closer, handing him another cigarette, then another, then another. His eyes, the green of moss on concrete, regarded Sherlock warmly, his hands on Sherlock's shoulders when he swayed. Sherlock sunk against the chair that Rhett led him to, his hand moving to his shirt. His skin was covered in sweat, and in spite of the breeze he was still uncomfortably warm.

“You know,” Rhett began talking, “I didn't know about you and Victor until recently. Frankly, the reason he gave us about why he, uh, was leaving uni... was that he'd knocked up some upper-class girl by mistake and had to leave because of his father not wanting him to have his name ruined.”

Sherlock's eyes opened. A star way off in the distance twinkled at him, the wind singing hymns in his ear. The earth stilled around him, time frozen in a snapshot of the moment, even the pulse of his heart ceasing for a single second. “Woman?” he repeated numbly, voice toneless, a hollow in his chest. There was no pain, no betrayal, no anger. Somehow, there was nothing. Nothing but silence and stillness and an odd feeling of  _ oh _ .

Rhett nodded, and he looked just as drunk as Sherlock, face flushed. “Yeah. A gal named Helen.”

_Helen_. Sherlock wanted to laugh at the irony, that a woman who had stolen his lover's heart had the same name as the woman who had started the Trojan War because of her beautiful face that Paris hadn't been able to resist. The woman who brought on a war that lasted ten years because she was so dazzling in beauty that she was worth a thousand ships and a thousand lives and a roomful of kings.

Sherlock wondered if he wanted to know what Helen looked like, what their child looked like. He decided he didn't.

Rhett scrubbed his face after a while of Sherlock’s silence, “Hey, man, that was completely out of line for me to say. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything, I thought you knew.”

“I didn't,” Sherlock murmured bluntly, unsure if he should be humiliated or angered. Rhett apologized again before he quietly took his leave. When Sherlock entered the sitting room again most of the guests were still there, and Victor was entertained with one of Jeremy's stories about some old legend about what happened when a student went to an elevator at midnight. Sherlock walked past them, entering the bedroom they shared and looked at the way their belongings had mixed together, the way his things and Victor's things had simply become  _ things _ . It looked disgustingly domestic.

He packed  _ his _ things and left quietly and if Victor noticed, which he likely didn’t, he didn't say anything. The ride home to Baker Street was a silent one, and the phone in Sherlock's hand felt like an iron weight. The sight of Baker Street didn't bring him comfort like it used to, and he glided up the stairs without visiting Mrs Hudson. 

He would deal with her in the morning.

“Oh, hello,” John said from the living room, sitting with a book in his lap and a cup of tea at his side. John. Sherlock blinked at him for a few seconds before remembering.  _ 6 months. _ “I'm sorry, I wasn't sure if- if you want me here, I um... It was empty, and I thought...”

Sherlock shook his head, “it's fine, John,” he said before retiring to his room. Beyond the world he could hear John shuffling around before he retired to his own rooms with a sigh an hour later. As guilty as Sherlock felt about their anticlimactic reunion, he just wanted to be alone to mourn the loss of yet another love, the dousing of a flame that had burned for years. On some level he was aware that he'd have to face the world again at some point, but not today, not now, not  _ yet _ .

He clicked his phone on, and scrolled through his contacts until his finger was hovering over  _ Mycroft Holmes _ . “Well, what the hell,” he muttered, before pressing dial. It rung precisely three times- which was Mycroft's normal amount of rings before he answered or declined- before he heard Mycroft's voice on the other end.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft breathed from the other end, and Sherlock heard the weariness in his brothers voice. Checking the clock, he saw that it had somehow turned 3 in the morning without his knowing. “What is it?”

Sherlock could only listen to Mycroft inhale and exhale for a few seconds, trying to remember what to say, trying to force the words from his lips even as they tasted foreign on his tongue. Just as Mycroft began to ask if he was still there, Sherlock spoke quickly.

“Mycroft-” his voice cracked, and he received a faint memory from his childhood of scraped knees and Mycroft's warm hand on his shoulder as he led Sherlock to the chair, kneeling in front of him with a plaster in his hand.  _ It'll be okay, Sherlock, it'll heal. You'll be okay. _ “Mycroft, I... I don't know what to do.”

The other line was dead silent. In the distance he could hear an ambulance passing by like a meteorite, the sound being eaten by the night in the seconds that Sherlock waited for an answer. “Tell me what's wrong.” And so Sherlock did, feeling like a child trying to find solace in his older brother's presence. Part of him detested it, yet another part of him thought that on some level, it was true. “Oh brother mine,” Mycroft sighed in that bone-tired world-weary voice of his that he reserved for his brother, and Sherlock already knew what Mycroft would be thinking.

_ I told you to be careful, little brother, I warned you not to get to close to them. _

“I don't know what to do,” he repeated, curling tighter on himself as he laid on the bed, the sheets cold around him. In the room above him, John was asleep. John, who had waited 6 months, who Sherlock had loved for what felt like forever, who had made a mistake and paid for it.

And for the first time in Sherlock's life, Mycroft's response was, “Neither do I.” There was no haughtiness in his tone, no condescension, and for once-  _ for once _ Sherlock realized that Mycroft was as human as he was, and for the first time in months he allowed himself to unravel right there on the phone with his brother. Painful, silent sobs tore through him and he clutched the phone to his ear and he could hear Mycroft's sadness on the other end. “I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'll be there in the morning. Try to... hold on, alright? Just stay safe for the night and I'll be there soon.”

“It  _ hurts _ ,” Sherlock whispered into the phone like a dearly-kept secret, his own tears cold as ice on his face.

“I know.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is... what came out. I realized I hadn't posted this yet, so... sorry? I mean, nobody's reading this anyway so... oh well.
> 
> The plot thiccens  
> The pilot chiccens  
> The pilates britain  
> The pirate sickens  
> The chiccen villains  
> The worst note ever written

**Author's Note:**

> Poor Sherlock :(  
> 


End file.
